


What's This?

by impassivetemerity



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull is So Large and doesn't know much about the world, First Meeting aftermath, Gen, Pre-Inquisition, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:21:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassivetemerity/pseuds/impassivetemerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Psst. Hey, what is this?" he asks, setting something on Krem's stomach. It's light and warm, standing on four pin points that press into his muscles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's This?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saphire_dance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphire_dance/gifts).



Krem's first thought upon waking is that he's nearly jealous of the blue streak coming out of someone's mouth, part common tongue, part qunlat, and a mix of the two together. He's halfway to impressed when the realization that he's not entirely sure where he is dawns on him and panic begins to set deep in his chest. It's a horrible feeling when mixed with the screaming pain of wounds on his body, moving too fast too soon as he tries to get up and find his bearings.

There's no rope, no chain binding him to the worn cot he had been placed on and it's a small but welcome thing, even if he's still deciding on whether or not he should try to find a weapon or just sneak away while he can.

"I'd advise you to lay back down. Your wounds weren't as bad as your friend's, but still serious enough to warrant worry," a voice says from behind him, accent distinctly Ferelden. Krem relaxes just a little, turning around to face the person speaking to him.

He certainly doesn't look like the men who had been attempting to catch him, tall and nothing but angles, dark circles prominent underneath his eyes. Krem is still wary, dark eyes passing over the worn coat he had on, scanning for the sign of a weapon and seeing none. It's almost strange to Krem, seeing someone out here without even a knife sheathed on his person and he really can't decide if this man is incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.

"Where are we?" he asks, voice smaller than he'd like it to be.

"Tevinter border, in a forest that you won't be bothered in if you're careful."

Krem doesn't recall a forest near the town he had been in, but he supposes that he wasn't particularly bothered with trying to take in his surroundings too much, eyes practically glued on what was behind his back for far too long. It's probably a little reckless and defies everything he was taught in the military, but he must've been doing something right to survive this long. The man in front of him shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching Krem as he looks around, trying to take in his surroundings.

"The qunari?" he asks finally, deciding he should ask about the stupid bastard who took the whip for him.

A slightly grim expression crosses the Ferelden's features, lips thinning as he tries to word what he needs to say.

"It's not good, but it's not exactly terrible," he starts, "but there's no saving his eye. The damage was too much, even for my skills," his expression turns apologetic, brow creased with disappointment. Krem feels just the slightest bit bad for him.

"It's an just one eye. As long as I have another one I'm fine," the qunari chimes in, having left his cot as well, nearly silent footsteps belying his utterly massive size.

 _'They grow them big in Par Vollen but Maker, he's a damned mountain,'_ Krem thought, feeling like a child standing near him.

"Neither of you are proving to be agreeable patients," the Ferelden sighs, sounding almost fond if it was possible. A weary half smile replaces the expression of anxious guilt, though it fades fairly quickly as he yawns from sheer exhaustion. There seems to be a weight pressing down on him and a weariness seems like it'll never leave him, no matter how much he rests. Krem's sure there's a story there, but he doesn't ask, he knows better than to do that.

The qunari laughs at the man, loud and almost gleeful. It's strange to see one of them joking and having an expression that isn't lock-jawed scowling. He's used to seeing them like that from his stint in the military, sitting in cells for creatures half their size in a few of the Tevinter war camps, captured but still unbroken. A large hand claps against the Ferelden's back, a friendly gesture meant to inspire some level of good will, though it mostly succeeds in causing him to take a small stumble forward as he's caught off guard by the qunari's strength.

"Back to your cots, the both of you," he insists, voice firm and tinted with authority. Krem does as he's told, in decidedly too much pain to want to argue with him. The Ferelden had healed him and not turned him in, and that warranted respect enough for Krem to not question anything he had asked. His cot was soft enough and blessedly without fleas or any other pests he's had to deal with in his days on the run, allowing him to settle into a dreamless but light sleep, unable to truly relax after being on high alert for so long.

A voice wakes him up in the darkness, though there's no urgency in it. It's filled with curiosity, and Krem recognises it as belonging to the qunari.

"Psst. Hey, what is this?" he asks, setting something on Krem's stomach. It's light and warm, standing on four pin points that press into his muscles.

"What," Krem murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, confused at the sudden and very new pressure on body. His eyes open, and the qunari sits to his side with his massive legs crossed in front of him. Campfire illuminates his features, cloth bandages wrapped around one side of his head. Krem wonders how difficult it had been to wrap him up with the unbelievably large set of horns he has.

The weight on his stomach has settled, four pressure points turning into a more manageable and even weight on his stomach, and Krem glances down to get a look at it. It's furry and vibrating, eyes closed contentedly as it sits on him. A cat. Clearly.

"It's a cat," he says matter of factly. The qunari nods, half to himself as he repeats the word.

"Cat. Alright." "You've never seen a cat before?" Krem asks with bewilderment. One of the cat's eyes open as he shifts, pulling himself into a sitting position. It lets out a small noise of protest, but Krem placates it with a few strokes and a scratch underneath the chin. His efforts are met with purring and it settles into the space between his legs, seeming to fall back asleep instantly.

The qunari shakes his head.

"It reminded me of the foxes you sometimes see out in the desert, but it wasn't quite the same."

"You find them all the time in cities, eating what scraps they can find. Sometimes there's an old woman or two that leave out cream for them."

He seems fascinated by the idea, reaching a hand out to touch the cat tentatively. Krem notices two missing fingers on his hand, but they don't look fresh, causing him to sigh with relief. He'd already caused his rescuer to lose enough, he wasn't sure if he wanted the added weight of some fingers thrown in.

The cat leans into the touch, making the qunari's breath catch. It's almost a little too surreal for Krem, but it's a welcome change from the constant tension in his gut.

"These aren't so bad," the qunari says as the cat rolls, turning belly and chin up. He laughs breathily, clearly happy with this turn of events. "I'm The Iron Bull, by the way. Never got around to telling you."

"Cremisius Aclassi."

The Iron Bull makes a face.

"I'm not gonna remember that. Is Krem all right with you?"

"Only if I can call you Bull."

"Done," he extends a hand to Krem, and Krem takes as much as he can of it, shaking firmly. "That's the proper custom, right? You Vints are weird about formality and crap."

Krem laughs and shakes his head, "I'm not some pampered magister lord."

"Hard to tell with you people."

"Says the one who's people get their name from their rank. How many The Iron Bulls are running around?"

Bull snorts but laughs, "Just one. I chose it for myself."

He's unusual for a qunari, that's for damn sure, but Krem almost feels like he can trust him. The qunari never say what they don't mean, and he's almost certain Bull means no ill will towards him.

"You any good with a sword?" Bull asks after a moment, rebuffed by the cat as it pushes itself off of Krem's lap, wandering off towards a curled mass of feathers and thin blankets. It settles against the vaguely human shaped lump, eyes open now. The cat seems alert now, watchful of the area around them, seemingly ready to alert them of any danger.

"Better with war hammers than swords, but coin is coin. You need me to be good with a sword, I'll be the best damned sword this side of Anderfels."

Bull considers for a moment, deciding that he likes this answer very much.

"Well," he says with a grin, "how'd you like to be the inaugural member of The Bull's Chargers?"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend, because they put up with me texting at all hours of the day to yell about Dragon Age haha. 
> 
> Yes, the Ferelden is supposed to be Anders. Because I love him and I imagine he's one of those people who chronically has to help no matter what.
> 
> Come talk to me over at gaydragonhell.tumblr.com


End file.
